Old John and the Dog
by Ligeila
Summary: Old John finds a dog, more dead than alive, by the seashore. He takes care of it and that's about it.


Old John and the dog

Old John is, well, old. He's pushing 80 and not doing it well. He lives alone a few miles out of the village by the east coast. He used to be a fisherman and now he lives off his small pension. He doesn't have a boat (her name was Lucky Lucy and he sold her to pay for his grandson's bail ten years ago), he doesn't own a car and his only way of getting about is walking. He doesn't mind, he likes walking, especially by the sea. The only other thing he likes is nursing his beer at the local pub and staring at strangers who dare to venture in. He has a few mates in that old-men's sport lined next to him by the counter.

On the 15th of July there is a mother of a storm. It really does come, seemingly, out of nowhere. Old John has been anchored to the sea for all his life. He knows all her moods and knows also that sometimes she just likes to be a bitch. So Old John just stares out at the storm from his cottage window and makes no move to go out. The storm lasts well into the night and calms down only just before morning. This suits Old John just fine.

In the manner of all who live by the sea Old John goes out on the beach after the storm is gone. He brings gloves, a bag and a sharp stick. One never knows what shit the sea spits out. Sometimes it's even valuable, mostly it's just rubbish. But all the fun is in looking anyway. So, Old John goes out and walks the coastline heading away from the village. There are plenty of people who come out from the village like him but they usually don't go too far.

He finds a full bottle of Gin that turns out to be filled with seawater. He finds a lot of driftwood that he piles up to come and get it later. There are a lot of plastic bags and bottles and Old John just wishes that people would stop throwing junk into water. Mostly everything he comes across he would much rather do without.

Most of the seaside around these parts is cliffs and there is little area where one can walk by the sea, no more than a few miles either way from the village, so usually Old John walks until he has nowhere on to go. Due to this habit he finds at the end of the beach a large furry lump. He half knows what it will be before he walks nearer. Some poor beast caught in the storm, now dead. He has seen plenty of such. Once there was a dead horse right near the harbour. Such is the current here that it drags everything out from the sea and spits it onto the beach.

Old John walks up to the furry bundle and, in an age old manner of all humans, pokes it idly with his stick. He doesn't expect the thing to move, much else yelp pitifully – still alive. On closer inspection it turns out to be a dog. And the dog is in a sad state. That's pretty much all that can be said about it. He's surprised that the dog is still alive, truth be told. Wet, bony and clearly mistreated – the dog doesn't have the strength to fight or even to run away. The dog growls at Old John as he comes closer but clearly there is no real intent behind it. Just desperation to be left alone.

Old John knows he should walk away. The dog won't live. But Old John has had plenty of dogs over the years and if ever he had a soft spot for someone it would be his dogs. This creature is a sorry and sad thing, more dead than alive, and John feels related. He too, after all, has one leg in a coffin already with his bad back, and arthritis and all the other shit the doctors say and he doesn't care about. So, he places a hand on the dog's side, out of reach of any teeth, and pats lightly when he makes the promise to come back and get it.

Old John uses a cart to bring the dog home from the sea shore. It's a bitch to get the dog into the cart, as it is a big dog, regardless how bony, and its fur is heavy with salt and water. It's also a challenge to get the cart back home but Old John is determined. Once home, he moves the dog into the shed. The dog smells of something foul and needs a good wash and if it is going to die on Old John any time soon then better it not do so in the house.

Usually it would be a bigger trouble to wash a dog that clearly doesn't want the attention but the beast clearly can't muster up any resistance, as Old John uses a hose to wash the saltwater off and then applies washing powder meant for wool to get most of the grime out of its fur. On such a closer inspection the dog turns out to be a he and even thinner than Old John had feared before. It seems that the dog consists of mostly thick black fur, some bones, and sharp teeth.

Once the dog doesn't smell anymore and is towelled reasonably dry, Old John decides to move him inside, dying or not. The dog needs to get warm and the only such place where a fire can be lit is the fireplace. Once the dog is asleep in front of the fire on a dozen or so spread out old newspapers, Old John uses his landline to call the local vet. The vet, Richard Fields, promises to pop by after he closes his shop in the village to have a look at the dog. Neither of them have much hope in their voice but it's the least Old John can do. If worse comes to worse then the dog can die with some dignity at least.

When Doc Fields gets there, the dog has been asleep for hours. He whines in his sleep like having a bad nightmare but doesn't move. Old John watches some telly, makes a cup of strong tea and just pokes about the house idly, removing old dishes from the view and trying to force some order onto the piles of old newspapers he has everywhere. He makes very little headway but it keeps him busy until the vet gets there.

Doc Fields makes a cursory check of the dog. It wakes the beast up and gets him growling at the intruding hands but he doesn't bite and Fields knows how to keep him calm. Later, when Fields is washing his hands, he tells Old John the score. The dog has been mistreated, badly. Undernourished, a work of years apparently, beaten and frightened by humans, and, most horrible, kept in some sort of confinement for a very long time, this is judged by the withered muscles.

"Pity too," says the vet, "must have been a fine dog once. A Scottish Deerhound, I'd say. Purebred too. No doubt worth a lot of money when he was younger." He doesn't need to say that now the dog is no more than a testament to human cruelty. Old John nods sagely because he has nothing to say.

"If the dog is alive come morning then he might even make it," Fields says halfway out the door. He has left some medicine, vitamins and such, to be fed to the dog if he's still breathing in twelve hours. Other than that there is nothing that Doc Fields can do. It's up to Old John to feed the dog watered down beef-broth and keep him warm. If the dog lives he lives, if not then not.

It has been a while since Old John last had a dog and even more time since he had anyone to take care of. His last dog had taken off one day; much like his wife had some fifty odd years ago. Nor has Old John heard anything from his grandson since he bailed him out from jail all those years ago. He doubts he will ever see that ungrateful bastard again.

He sets a moth eaten but clean blanket over the dog, places a bowl of water and another of broth near his nose but not too close, and takes himself off to bed. He leaves the dog to his own devices before the cooling fireplace. Thus, Old John never witnesses how the dog wakes up around two o'clock at night, smells the broth, and slowly laps it all up followed shortly by water. The dog barely moves, just curls up tighter under the blanket and sleeps on.

Come morning the dog is very much alive. But still too weak to move. This is made evident by the sharp-smelling yellow stain under the dog and an overall miserable look, as he tries to pull away from it but fails. Old John had seen this predicament coming. The old newspapers under the dog have now nicely soaked up all the piss. John gathers them up into a black trash bag and tosses it outside. He then gives cursory mop to the floor and places fresh newspapers in a thick layer under the dog.

He debates the merits of dragging the dog out to wash it again but decides not to. The beast is hurt and should not be moved more than necessary. So he uses a rag to clean the dog and leaves it at that. He makes another bowl of broth for the dog and crushes some vitamins into it. Then he watches as the dog laps at it slowly. Eating only half before giving up and falling back to sleep.

Old John calls the vet then, letting him know that the dog is still breathing and even eating. Fields promises to be along in a few hours to check up. John leaves a window and the door open to air out some of the smell. His own nose is blind to it now but he supposes that the smell of piss is still about anyways.

Fields doesn't comment on the smell if there is some. When he gets back he goes straight for the dog. This time he has a larger kit with him. He listens to the lungs, he touches the dog a pit more thoroughly and more forcefully than before if the constant growling is anything to go by. Then Fields lines up a series of vials and syringes and shoots about half a dozen different things into the nape or thy of the black beast who clearly is unappreciative. The dog tries to crawl away, then he tries to bite but Fields knows how to be fast and efficient and gets his gloved hands away before the dog catches him.

Old John thinks that he should really name the animal before calling it 'the dog' gets old. But naming things is a dangerous business, especially if it isn't sure if the dog will live at all.

Gloves or not, Fields washes his hands again in Old John's kitchen, as he gives the rundown. Fields can't guess at the dog's age, with this level of mistreatment it could be from five to ten years. The dog was fully grown and developed before he fell into the hands of whoever did this. There are no broken bones, which is a relief. There doesn't seem to be any internal damage but to make sure there should be some x-rays, so Fields needs to know if Old John wants him to take any because that is going to cost. So far Fields hasn't asked for money, nor will he, but if the dog is taken in then the bill will start running. Old John can't afford shit like that. So he says no.

Fields just nods and carries on with his talk. He warns Old John that the dog will never recover from his torment. He will always be a shy and angry thing, afraid of humans now. If Old John wants to keep him then he might not be the best of company.

Old John looks at the dog by the dead fireplace and just nods at the right places. Somehow he knows he will not be keeping him. There is a fire in those light grey eyes, an anger that can't be contained nor kept at a small cottage by the sea. As soon as the beast can walk it will be out of here. Old John doesn't mind that. He sends the doc on his way. Promises to give the dog all the vitamins and other stuff the vet leaves for him. He sits then near the dog and looks at it over clasped hands. He doesn't reach out to stroke him – the dog is clearly still bitter about the shots and will go in for a good bite if he can. Old John knows just how he feels – he himself feels much the same every time he comes from the GP's office. He just looks the dog in the eye and nods to himself.

Ten days later the dog is gone. Old John wakes in the morning to find his living room empty and the front door ajar. Old John is old but he could have sworn he had locked the door for the night. The key is still on the shelf by the door where it usually is. Nothing is missing but the dog, so Old John doesn't make a fuss of it. He never sees the dog again. In his head he called him 'Snuffles'.


End file.
